Silent III
by Bitter Red Irony
Summary: Final installment to the Silent Trilogy. Draco remembered the colour of coffee on cream tiles, and the bittersweet taste of coffee on her lips... HGDM


**Silent III**

Red was the colour of love, of passion, of bravery. Red was the colour of blood; the blood that runs though our veins, which burned hot with passion and chills with fear. Blood was the evidence and cause of war.

Draco was raised to believe blood mattered; purity was all that counted, he was raised to know no other type, to disregard all others that were lesser then himself.

He remembered when they first made love reaching out and grasping the red ribbon in Hermione's hair, brilliant and startling in contrast to her chocolate brown hair. He remembered not thinking how it was a symbol of her house, or even that it was a symbol of love; he though of the blood that pumped though his body, that burned and throbbed in every inch of his body and the body beneath him..

And as her ribbon twined around their arms intermingled with his own black one he thought bitterly of the darkness and evil that dwelled within his own blood. Red like Hermione's, but stained and blackened by his father and by his blood line.

Coffee always tasted better in her presence, her rich aroma intermingling with the strong smell of ground coffee beans was permanently imprinted in his mind, to be resurrected whenever he felt the warm liquid caressing his throat and warming his body

He always remembered the warmth of the school kitchens, the rich aroma of cooking food and warm linen, a comforting smell that only ever existed in his memories of their midnight meetings. He remembered the worn chairs that sat in a small alcove, away from prying eyes and ears. Hermione had wanted to see the world, she told him that, she said she wanted to travel and live amazing adventures that had nothing to do with war and death.

Draco remembered the colour of coffee on cream tiles, and the bittersweet taste of coffee on Hermione's lips; and the feeling of freedom that came with telling someone what he wanted to be, to see, to do.

'I can't switch sides for you' it needed to be said, no matter how bitter the words tasted, she didn't cry or shout, she simply nodded and said 'I know'. By then they both had realised, they both had known, but the words needed to be spoken aloud anyway.

They stopped talking about themselves after that.

He remembered her wedding day, her hair was filled with sprinklings of honey-suckles flowers intermingled with the chocolate waves, she was dressed in worn jeans and a pink hooded jumper. And he thought as he looked at her that she looked sublime.

She was shaking, though she would never admit it. Draco knew that she was having second thoughts, he remembered all the midnight conversations they had, and the way her eyes lit up and she stared off into the distance as though she could see the cities she spoke about.

That light was dying now. He could see it.

Apparently Weasley didn't like travelling, didn't like being too far from the world he was comfortable in. Draco's heart ached as he saw the dream slowly die before him. 'Is this what you want?' he already knew the answer but he wanted to hear it anyway. They sat in silence until she left. Already late for the wedding she shouldn't be attending.

Draco remembered standing next to his father in front of his lord. He remembered the crippling pain that crept though his body, that burned hot cold at the same time and the feeling that spread through his veins like poison, the feeling of complete servitude.

His soul was heavier now; it was weighed down inside him as though a load had been tied to it. the black ink on his forearm burned all the time, when he sleep when he dreamt, when he sat in silence and listened to Pansy make plans for his own wedding, a wedding that would tie together two loyal families of the dark lord.

He remembered looking down at his arm after Voldemort had lifted his wand from the skin to see rivulets of blood running down his arm, like red ribbons tangling together. And he smiled.

When Hermione had seen the mark she wouldn't meet his eyes. It was another mark that symbolised everything that kept them apart. She left first, went home to her farce of a marriage and smiled at Weasley's jokes and cooked dinner like a dutiful house wife. He knew. He always knew. It made him sick to realise that all her dreams were nearly gone.

He saw them fading.

Saw her dreams die and her mind become jaded and bitter.

Saw her mask when no one else did, when his own mask was becoming so much a part of his face.

The final battle was coming closer, everyone in the wizarding world could tell. There was a tension in the air and loyalties were being questioned, Voldemort became progressively crueller, torturing more then he did before just to hear the screams. Draco remembered bitterly thinking that no matter what Voldemort wouldn't win, he was too easily swayed by his perverse nature.

Though he would never think it in his presence. There was a lot of things he wouldn't think when Voldemort was close by.

Sitting in the small booth Draco watched as Hermione broke down; her sobs were so quiet no one would notice unless they were looking. He though resentfully that maybe Hermione had got used to hiding her tears. He reached forward because it had been so long since they had touched; it had been so long since he gave into temptation and felt her soft hands against his. Her ring came off easily. He didn't feel right holding her hand while that ring marred it.

"When all this is over we'll leave all this behind, we'll run away to Paris or Russia… You'd like Russia, all that history and beauty… He'd drink coffee on our balcony over looking the world… No one will know our names and we'll go where we want and do what we feel like." He hadn't realised he was speaking, but his voice seemed to calm her and he felt compelled to tell all his secret hopes and dreams.

"We could open our own coffee shop; we'd be our own best customer."

The battle was more brutal then anyone had though it could be. The sky was alight with flashes of different colours and the ground beneath his feet was damp with blood and black with ash. He was hit from behind, an unknown curse and he went down, close to the end of Voldemort, he remembered a darkness and a murky grey around the edges of his vision and then the ground was coming up to meet him. He didn't even feel the pain when his body crumbled to the ground.

The battle ground was silent when he came to. He was smothered by his robes and that god-awful mask.

He had been left with the other bodies, already claimed dead on everyone-who-mattered records. As he rose to his shaky feet a surge of pain crept from his knee to the rest of his body, it might have been the pain getting to him, but he swore he smelt the smell of fresh coffee and a warm comforting kitchen.

He roamed the battle field for a while longer, a nameless face now. He walked among the dead and searched their faces, looking for only one. He never found it. Instead he found a ribbon, trampled by feet and forever stained. It was red.

The coffee shop was warm and welcoming, his cane hit the floor without a sound as he stalked across the floor towards the booth that held so many memories of long drawn out silences and unsaid words. She wasn't there, but he already knew she wouldn't be.

Even if she was alive, he was proclaimed dead. The last of the Malfoy family line: Deceased.

Maybe he should have felt something more to that, but he couldn't seem to.

He left the coffee untouched; it didn't taste the same without her near by.

Days past and the café became colder to him, but yet he returned, maybe he was hoping to find something, he didn't know what but yet he remained. Nearly two weeks past since the war ended before Draco was approached by one of the waitresses, she said nothing though reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a single ring.

It was a small gold ring, with a line of three rubies along the crown. They glittered in the sun as he let the small ring dance across his fingertips.

She went into battle loyal to him.

As he rose from his seat, slipping the small ring into his breast pocked and walked towards the door, he paused for the briefest moment as he saw the red of the ribbon that tied his hair back catch the light. He was different now, no longer a Malfoy, no longer marred by his bloodline.

Paris was always beautiful in the summer; Russia was stunning in the spring.

**A/N** That is the final instalment of the Silent Trilogy. Hope you all liked it, and please R&R


End file.
